


Call Me Your Angel

by vialattea



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Explicit Sexual Content, Inspired by Call Me By Your Name, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, aziraphale slowly realizing he's Not Straight, crowley is a fine middle-aged jack sauce, except in present-day cape cod, involuntary summer housemates to lovers, yes the peach scene is in here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:01:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25317961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vialattea/pseuds/vialattea
Summary: By all measures, Aziraphale has a perfect life. He lives in a vacation home with two close friends. He’s a staple in the local church community.He’s content.Until this year’s summer guest, a man named Crowley, provokes the introspection he’s spent his entire perfect life avoiding — including the idea that his desires may not align with the story he’s told himself all these years.And that the strongest among them is for a man he's only just met.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 164
Kudos: 159





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes before we begin!
> 
> _Call Me By Your Name_ is ultimately a sad story. If you’d like to know whether this AU will follow the same track, hover here on desktop. If you're on mobile, click [here](https://i.imgur.com/IbthMUx.png).
> 
> Also, this fic will also address experiences of homophobia in a religious environment and the psychological aftermath of such experiences — particularly internalized homophobia. I’ll put a content warning on chapters that are particularly heavy regarding that content, but it is a theme throughout. It will be handled respectfully and thoughtfully as yours truly has experience in the area.
> 
> Finally, thank you so much to my friends on discord for encouraging me to write this story and for the brainstorming help! Your enthusiasm means the world. Huge thanks in particular to [Anti_Kate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anti_kate), the best beta who ever beta-d and whose work you should absolutely check out because it is wonderful in every way just like her.

Aziraphale strolls down the stone path with purpose, assuming his best “welcoming host” demeanor despite being neither the host nor particularly welcoming. 

A driver and passenger remove themselves from the car ahead. The first is bald and dark-skinned, the second red-headed and pale. 

“Hello,” Aziraphale calls out pleasantly — or as pleasantly as a person can manage when they’ve just had to pause their reading. “Welcome to Jasmine Villa.”

The driver acknowledges him with a wave before circling around to the trunk, followed by the passenger. Aziraphale resists the urge to prickle at the fact that the second man has completely ignored him. He’s probably exhausted from the travel, and patience is a virtue, and one must appreciate their involuntary housemate as one appreciates a seasonal allergy that portends better times and departs before they happen.

He reaches the car just as the passenger steps out from behind it, which — now that Aziraphale has a good look at him — reveals the modishness of his ensemble.

A portion of his hair is tied back into a bun, for starters. The rest falls in loose curls above his shoulders — movie-star-perfect in a way his sunglasses only emphasize. A billowy black shirt is buttoned halfway down his chest and tucked into tight black trousers, like a wrapping of shadow in the afternoon sun.

He is, all things considered, more than a little intimidating.

“Is this your first time in Cape Cod?” Aziraphale asks as the two men begin lugging a suitcase from the trunk.

There is a long pause, which reveals itself as a nonanswer in just enough time for things to become uncomfortable. Aziraphale clears his throat. “Can I assist with your bags at all?”

“It’s just this one left,” the driver answers, sensing the awkwardness. “Oh! And the purse.” 

He goes to search the backseat for it, leaving Aziraphale to stare at the passenger and his incessantly jiggling leg in silence.

He’ll try again, he supposes. Aziraphale is nothing if not aggressively polite.

“So, where are you visiting from?”

(It’s London, he knows. The relevant dates and location of origin are all Anathema briefs him on in advance these days.)

The man looks up — or at least presumably he’s looking — like he only just noticed Aziraphale is there. He has half a mind to call the fellow out on the fact when the driver reappears with a large black handbag.

The man shoulders it.

“I like your, um…” 

On second thought, Aziraphale probably shouldn’t draw attention to the bag. It may sound condescending. He’s not the sort, but this man doesn’t know that. Instead he elects to compliment his clothes, though that would almost certainly seem like a comment on what the clothing so plainly highlights — which is worth praising to be sure, he’s a handsome man, but Aziraphale wouldn’t want to give him the wrong idea. He’s about to settle on “shoes” when he hears a dismissive snort.

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale huffs, “I recognize that I am not your official host but I’m attempting to welcome you into what happens to be my own home as well. If you’d be so kind as to respond to a _single_ word-” 

The man is shaking his hand. “Crowley.”

“I— um, yes, hello. I’m Aziraphale.”

His hand stills. “Yikes. Anathema’s inside?”

“Ah, indeed, she—”

“Great.”

And Aziraphale’s grip is empty again, the man — Crowley — sauntering toward the house as fast one can without it devolving into a lopsided trot.

 _“Ciao!”_ he calls over his shoulder.

Aziraphale turns to the driver with a look that says _Well that was a bit rude, wasn't it?_ to which the driver's face responds _At least you didn't just spend an hour in the car with him._

And that is fair enough, considering a villa has the luxury of internal walls.

The driver struggles to align Crowley’s abandoned bags in such a way that he can wheel them up to the house, which people always attempt and never achieve on a path so narrow. It’s almost refreshing, seeing the same mistake made for nearly the dozenth time. At least someone here is following the general script established by renters past, artfully curated to keep things as brief and pleasant as possible.

“Please, I'll handle it,” says Aziraphale, hoisting up the suitcases with practiced ease. “Thank you very much…”

“Adam.”

“Adam! I appreciate your help. Have a lovely day. And don't worry about the driveway gate, it will let you out automatically.”

“Thanks. You as well, sir.” He smiles warmly and tips an imaginary hat before returning to the vehicle.

Aziraphale heaves the bags up the path and drops them with a thud just inside the doorframe. He is not a porter, and he is certainly not carrying Crowley’s items upstairs for him. Though he wouldn’t be surprised if one bag weighed more than that man did soaking wet. 

…Maybe he should bring them up.

No, no he shouldn’t.

Instead he makes his way to the library before he can think it through any further, resolving to disappear until dinnertime or maybe August. 

It shouldn’t be difficult. Aziraphale is, essentially, a random passerby in the background of a new person’s vacation photos each year. One doesn’t rent a room in a town this small with the intent to make new friends. So it goes that Anathema plays the part of gracious host, Newt tries his best, and Aziraphale minds his own business apart from the occasional exchange of pleasantries or restaurant recommendations. 

Ten years of this have gone by smoothly and Aziraphale _will_ manage an eleventh, no matter how unpleasant this guest seems determined to be.

It’s only eight weeks, after all. Aziraphale can tolerate anyone for eight weeks.

The thought is a comfort as he searches the collection. He pulls down Wilde’s _De Profundis_ as a starting point. This should occupy him for a couple hours, at least, and perhaps afterwards he can finally— 

“Wow.”

Aziraphale yelps, turning sharply toward the doorway and nearly dropping his book. Crowley is leaning there at what must be a 45-degree angle, taking in the floor-to-ceiling shelves and volumes sprouting from the floor like clovers. His expression is unreadable. For the first time in his life Aziraphale wonders if he should feel self-conscious about the mess.

He reshelves the book, clears his throat. “May I help you?”

“Anathema says you give the tours around here.”

“She said that, did she?” Aziraphale stifles a sigh. He was really looking forward to reading. “I suppose it’s accurate.”

“I’d hate to put you out,” Crowley says, and definitely doesn’t mean it at all. “It’s just that Anathema’s working and I have no idea where Newt is.”

“It’s no trouble. I’d be happy to show you around,” says Aziraphale, and doesn’t mean it either.

Crowley eases from the doorframe into what, for him, probably qualifies as an upright posture. His hips seem to orbit his center of gravity more than align with it, shifting his body weight to and fro like a clock pendulum. It’s a wonder he doesn’t tip over.

Aziraphale briefly wonders whether Anathema would accept a bet on that before deciding he doesn’t need another earful about Agnes Nutter’s Code of Householding Conduct.

He’ll just ask Newt.

But first, the tour. Aziraphale wills himself into the hallway after Crowley, closing the library door behind him like he should have done five minutes ago.

“There’s the sitting room,” he says, indicating the space to the right. There’s no door, just the entryway to a large room which centers around a fireplace and several overstuffed chairs. “For… sitting, mostly.”

Crowley huffs a laugh and Aziraphale spares a glance at him, then another one. Up this close he can see his eyes. The smile tugging at his lips is reserved, but behind the sunglasses is something honestly joyful — a warmth of both feeling and color that hits Aziraphale right in the chest. What shade is that, a light brown? He—

Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“Kitchen!” Aziraphale blurts. “Um, the kitchen is across the hall.” He marches to the next room, having recovered from that embarrassing lull with the finesse of an intoxicated goose. 

Crowley meanders in after him. He’s silent for a moment, observing the off-white cabinets, the recipe books, the shelves stacked with dishes and spice jars. 

“Who does the cooking?”

“Newt, usually. But when she isn’t busy Anathema makes Puerto Rican dishes that are to die for. We eat together on the deck most nights. Sometimes summer guests cook as well, if they have a penchant for it.” 

The last statement hangs in the air.

Crowley doesn’t acknowledge it one way or the other. Instead he nods toward the open door on the far wall. “That the orchard?”

“Indeed it is!” Aziraphale beams. “The peaches will be ripe for picking in just a few weeks’ time. I’d love to show you around the garden as well, before we proceed upstairs.” 

“Uh… later, maybe.”

Aziraphale’s smile falters. 

He quickly plasters on a new one. There’s nothing to be upset about. Not that he _is_ upset, obviously. It was a foolish suggestion anyway — Aziraphale is here to identify rooms, not chat about local flora. He can’t fathom where that childish enthusiasm came from but it’s welcome to leave, thank you, and take the flush of his cheeks with it. 

He clears his throat, reminds himself that he does not know this person. 

“Next room?”

Crowley nods, so Aziraphale guides him down the other end of the hall. He indicates the aforementioned deck and porch, then Newt and Anathema’s offices, before heading upstairs.

He lets Crowley go first, which registers immediately as a mistake. Crowley’s trousers — now at eye level — strain impossibly around his thighs and rear with each step. Once again Aziraphale finds himself resolutely _not_ staring at this man’s choice of clothing, but for heaven’s sake he might as well be nude. It must be terribly uncomfortable as well — Aziraphale’s chest tightens just looking at it. 

If he is uncomfortable it doesn’t show. Aziraphale has never seen someone quite so at ease with himself. A pang of desire strikes him at the concept, so out of reach.

He passes Crowley as they reach the top of the steps and makes his way to the far left end of the hall. 

“This will be your bedroom. You’re welcome to bring your bags here if the urge strikes. Newt and Anathema are opposite you, so if you need something in the night they’ll be steps away. And down there to the right is the lavatory — you’ll have that to yourself.”

Crowley steps past him, turning to lean against the adjacent door. “You missed one.” 

“I didn’t — that’s just my bedroom.”

“Noted.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say to that so he says nothing at all. Which is evidently the wrong response, because now they’re staring at each other in silence and every passing second carries exponentially more awkwardness than the last.

“Well if that’s all, I’ll just— head back down.” Aziraphale points to the floor, a very helpful visual aid. “Enjoy your stay.” 

With that feeble excuse for a goodbye, he makes his way toward the steps, trying not to think too hard about what his arms are doing.

* * *

“So, what do you do around here?” says Crowley, strolling into the kitchen not five minutes later. 

Aziraphale blinks. A greeting would have been nice. “Ah, let’s see. Anathema writes, and Newt does software testing for work. But they also attend a book club—”

“I wasn’t asking about Newt or Anathema.”

“Oh! Of course. Well. I do a lot of reading — I have quite an extensive collection, actually, of old books. You know that obviously,” he says, shaking his head. He begins to rearrange the elements of his sandwich in no particular order. “In theory I restore and resell antique prints, but I end up keeping most of them in the end. I’m at the beach most mornings, out for lunch most afternoons. Church on Sundays. You know.”

He bites his tongue, realizing belatedly that he’s being asked more about local entertainments than the minutiae of his own weekly routine. He glances up expecting boredom but his stomach drops at the expression on Crowley’s face — a stare so cold and sharp it could have sliced him in two.

He can only assume he’s made some catastrophic misstep.

But Crowley says nothing, so Aziraphale doesn’t either. He just stares at his own reflection in those sunglasses, trying and failing not to feel desperately small. Waiting for something.

“Mm,” Crowley says. 

And he’s left the room.

* * *

Aziraphale would like to say he does not spend the next several hours retracing their conversation to pinpoint where he’d gone wrong, but that would be lying, and lying is a sin. Or at least that’s what they’d taught him in Sunday school, and at age 49 he’s in no position to start nitpicking. Not more than he already has, anyway.

He’d come to precious few conclusions. The simplest explanation is that he’d spoken about himself too much. But Aziraphale is not the type to blather on with self-indulgent nonsense — Crowley simply makes him nervous and being nervous makes him rambly. He’ll have to amend that impression when they interact again. _If_ they interact again. Which Aziraphale, unfortunately, hopes they will.

In any case, it comes as something of a surprise that evening when Crowley strolls into the sitting room as if nothing at all had happened. 

“You go to the beach most mornings, right?” he says, flopping sideways into an armchair. He holds out a slice of dry toast like a microphone.

“Me?” Aziraphale says dumbly.

“Yes, you. There’s no one else in here.”

“Right- yes. Yes, I did say that.”

“What time is ‘morning’ to you?” 

“About 7am usually. Why?”

“Do you swim?”

“I read.”

“Right out front? Or do you walk somewhere.”

Aziraphale shuts his book and puts it down on the side table. “Why am I being interrogated?”

“No reason,” Crowley shrugs. “Just gauging what the norms are. I’m thinking I’ll swim in the mornings while I’m here.”

Aziraphale stamps out a flicker of disappointment that has no business existing. “I see. Well, I tend to wander down the beach a little ways, five minutes’ walk or so.” He does the mental equivalent of a running start toward his next sentence, willing himself to say the first word so the ensuing statement has no choice but to follow. “You’re, uh, welcome to join me if you’d like. I’m typically there for about an hour.”

Crowley takes a bite of his toast. 

“Might do.” And for the first time, his whole face breaks out into a grin. “ _If_ you bring my bags upstairs. What’dya say, angel?” 

Aziraphale’s heart skips a beat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are with chapter two! Thank you so much for your patience; I hope you like it. And thanks again to [Anti_Kate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anti_kate) for beta reading!

“ _Took_ you long enough.”

Aziraphale manages by a hair’s breadth not to drop the book tucked under his arm, but his beach chair is not so lucky. It clatters to the deck in a raucous jumble of wood and fabric, leaving a trail of impending bruises down his shins.

Crowley — who has apparently been sprawled on a deck chair for much longer than the seven seconds since Aziraphale stepped outside — glances at an absurdly large wristwatch. “It’s nearly a quarter past! I assumed you’d be more punctual.” 

He flings himself from the chair and starts toward the beach, leaving Aziraphale to gawk in confusion. He picks up the beach chair and hastens to catch up.

“I didn’t expect to find anyone anticipating my arrival,” he says carefully.

“Expect it next time.”

_Next time?_

The stroll to Aziraphale’s preferred locale is not a long one, but it passes in a silence he would hesitate to deem comfortable. It’s unclear whether they’re walking together or simply in the same direction, and Aziraphale doesn’t dare attempt small talk after yesterday. They travel instead like beetles across a windowsill, taking anything but parallel paths until they reach a certain cove-like patch of beachgrass.

Aziraphale attempts an indifferent voice when he finally speaks. 

“This is my usual spot. Feel free to wander elsewhere, of course, if you’d like.” 

“Do you want me to?”

“I don’t mind one way or the other.” 

Crowley arches an eyebrow. “Alright.”

He turns on one heel to approach the shore. 

Aziraphale unfolds and settles into his beach chair, deciding that if God is in the business of negotiation he’d like to cash in his perfect Mass attendance for a one-way ticket to the pearly gates. Perhaps a conveniently located sinkhole or extremely localized tsunami would do.

He watches Crowley strip his outer layers to reveal a black unisuit. Presumably he’s removed the sunglasses as well, but his back remains to Aziraphale as he stows the ensemble in his bag and approaches the shore.

He wades in up to his calves and pauses. Adjusting to the cold, probably. Aziraphale can appreciate that. He doesn’t see a need to jump in all at once, to rush into things that can be taken slowly. For the— 

Crowley dives headfirst into the waves.

Well then.

He springs back up a few seconds later, wet hair flinging back from his face in a picturesque arc. The look of it would fit just as naturally on a magazine cover as it does in the Atlantic ocean at 7:30 AM. Quite unfair.

But Aziraphale is reading right now, actually, so perhaps his book should be open. 

He stares at the page. 

Then back at Crowley. 

No, back at the page. 

Quite some time passes this way — the latter component growing steadily less frequent — but Aziraphale is too busy not-quite-reading to notice. All he can think about is how inexplicably sweaty he’s become and whether the chair makes him look foolish. Not that Crowley has glanced at him a single time anyway. And is that a bad sign?

It exhausts him to care this much. He’s agonized before over fixations on new people — some more than others, and Crowley even more than those. It’s a familiar ache, in type if not intensity. The ache of wanting someone’s approval when he doesn’t quite believe he deserves it, and neither do they.

But it will wear off, he reminds himself. It always does. He only needs to endure, without embarrassing himself, until that point.

So when Crowley emerges from the sea with strands of hair clinging to his face and water dripping from his immaculate skin, carrying himself like he owns the whole beach, Aziraphale does not notice. He doesn’t glance up, doesn’t wave, doesn’t acknowledge him at all. 

He reads. And if he looks up a few minutes later to ensure Crowley makes it back to the house alright, well, that's just basic safety.

It takes about five more runs through the first paragraph of page one for Aziraphale to give up on comprehension for the day.

With a heavy sigh, he tucks the book back under his arm and folds up the chair. They accompany him on a sullen trudge back to the house, where he deposits each item.

There’s always tomorrow morning.

And blessedly, this one is already taking a turn for the better. As Aziraphale steps into the kitchen, he's greeted by Newt, Anathema, and the smell of fresh pancakes.

“Morning!” Anathema says from beside the kettle.

“Good morning, my dears.” Aziraphale eagerly loads some pancakes onto a plate and takes a seat at the island. “How did you sleep?”

“Oh, you know. Typical first-rental-day flashes of panic, but otherwise alright. What about you?”

“Marvelous, thank you.”

“How was the view this morning?”

Aziraphale stiffens. “What view? I wasn’t looking at any view.”

Anathema squints at him. “Aziraphale, this is literally a beachfront property.”

“Oh! Yes, naturally, I just— got caught up in my book is all. Very enthralling.”

“Yeah?” Newt says through a mouthful of pancake. “What about?”

“Ehm…”

The kettle goes off.

“Tea?” Anathema offers. She’s already preparing him a cup.

Aziraphale nods fervently.

“So this person wrote in to ‘Ask a Witch’ last night,” she says, plucking sachets from a tin. “They said they’re starting an inquisition, and wanted to know how to tell if an onion is Spanish.”

“What on Earth did you tell them?” Aziraphale laughs.

“I said Spanish onions are from Spain and Hispanic onions are from Spanish-speaking countries. That's not to speak of Latin onions, which are a whole other potentially-overlapping group. So their safest bet is to simply ask the onion how it identifies, or better yet, not to mention it at all."

Newt gazes at her, chin in hand. “I love the way you are.”

“I know,” she says matter-of-factly.

Aziraphale does not miss the subtle warmth in her eyes, the smile just barely peeking out behind her lips.

“Anyway, here’s the grocery list,” she continues, pressing her finger to a notepad. “I’m going shopping later, so write down any requests before noon. And if either of you bump into Crowley, tell him to come chat with me — I still have to check in with him about preferences and dietary restrictions.”

“Will do,” says Newt.

Anathema looks to the room’s grandfather clock. She nods to herself, then collects and disposes of everyone's teabags. 

“Alright! Enjoy your breakfast. I’m gonna go get some work done.” 

She picks up her mug and pecks Newt on the cheek before disappearing into the hall.

Newt turns to Aziraphale conspiratorially. “So. Have you seen him?” 

“Not today, no.” Aziraphale can’t say why he’s lying, only that his instincts deem it necessary.

“No I mean, like, have you spoken to him? I honestly can’t decide if he’s a jerk or not.”

_Tell me about it,_ Aziraphale thinks.

He sips his tea. “What makes you say that?”

“I dunno, it’s like… he’s aloof, but in no particular direction. Can’t tell what he’s thinking. Granted, he hasn’t said ten words to any of us since he got here, so maybe he’s just shy.”

“Dressed like that?” Aziraphale blurts.

“I’m just saying! You of all people should know not to judge a book by its cover.”

“I, of all people, know how to do so accurately. But I take your point, even if I think it incorrect.”

Newt shrugs. “Guess we’ll see. Oh! I wanted to ask — are you up for a bet on whether he actually knows how to use a chair?”

* * *

Aziraphale ascends the staircase feeling reinvigorated, as he often does following chats with Newt. They’d meandered far beyond Crowley, onto theater and travel, before parting ways for the morning. For all that he’d been a nervous wreck the first time Anathema brought him round to meet her mother, Newt had quickly revealed himself as a gentle soul and a sparkling conversationalist. 

And upon seeing the way he looked at Anathema, Aziraphale had grown fond of him immediately.

It’s a lovely thing that they have each other.

Lovely enough, in fact, to reassure Aziraphale he hasn’t missed out on something. They’d known quite clearly that their connection was solid enough to build a life around, and Aziraphale has simply never felt such a thing — not with the few girls he’d dated back in school or any he’s met since. 

He does wonder, now and then, whether he’ll ever encounter somebody of interest. It’s not a repulsive concept, per se. Clearly it can be quite pleasant. But something about those juvenile dalliances had never settled right, never clicked the way it ought to. And, frankly, Aziraphale has standards. He has no compunctions being single for the duration of his life over settling for the sake of it.

And it’s not as if his parents still nag him about grandchildren. Neither his father from beyond the grave nor his mother, happily settled with already-has-grandkids Georg.

His thoughts turn idly to Crowley, whether he has someone, what his parents are like. What life in general is like for someone such as him. 

Which would explain why Aziraphale now finds himself confronting not his own door, but that of the upstairs bathroom. His, nine months of the year. Strictly Crowley’s for now.

He ought to leave.

But the door has been left ajar, and the window within looks over the gardens. He could take a quick peek. See if Crowley's down there somewhere. Anathema asked him to find the man, after all, and she accepts so little help with these matters. He’d be an awful friend to reject the opportunity. 

His eyes flicker down the empty hallway before he steps inside.

Crowley’s still-damp unisuit is draped over the edge of Aziraphale’s bathtub. Arranged on the shelf above his sink are several toiletries, all in black travel containers, all without labels. A sleek electric toothbrush rests on its base by the faucet. 

They clash wildly with the room’s white and aqua color scheme — dark where Aziraphale’s items would be bright, organized where his would be haphazard. The knowledge feels at once too intimate and entirely shallow, portentous in a way he doesn’t understand.

But, of course, Aziraphale is only here to look out the window. 

He steps just close enough to peek over its edge and scans what he can see of the gardens. The tree boughs obscure his view, but beneath one he just barely makes out a huddled figure. It’s unquestionably Crowley. 

There. Now he knows. 

He should go make use of that. Only— Crowley does look rather occupied with something. Perhaps him being hard to spot is no coincidence. And at this hour, so close to noon… No, better to let it go. If Anathema hasn’t spoken to him by now, the absence is likely intentional on his part.

Aziraphale turns from the window but makes no motion to leave. Instead he stands transfixed by the knowledge that he will not set foot in this room for the rest of the summer. There will be no further opportunity to glance inside. 

Perhaps he should make the most of it.

But no, of course he shouldn't. What is he thinking? He shouldn't even be standing here _now_ — invading this man’s privacy over some idle interest, how ghastly of him.

He berates himself for lingering and leaves the room.

* * *

It’s several hours later when Aziraphale realizes that good heavens, lunch has entirely slipped his mind. 

He figures a sandwich will do, given the relative proximity to dinner. He doesn’t have enough time to eat out, and certainly not to attempt and fail at a recipe before doing so. 

In the kitchen he retrieves a loaf of sourdough bread, a knife, and cutting board. Aziraphale does not much enjoy this part. Or any of the subsequent parts, if he’s being quite honest. But he will suffer a great many tribulations to avoid missing a meal.

He’s just begun to cut a slice which will invariably deem a flattened triangular shape its raison d'être when Crowley wanders in from the garden. Or at least, he thinks it’s Crowley. He deliberately does not look up to check.

For a few seconds, anyway.

When he does he finds the man leaning against the worktop, watching him.

"Hello," Aziraphale mumbles. He clears his throat and tries again in a clearer voice. "I trust you had a pleasant swim?" 

"Yep. You making lunch?"

"It would appear so." 

“Thought you didn’t cook."

"I’m perfectly capable of making a sandwich."

"Doesn’t look like it."

Aziraphale pauses with his knife halfway through the loaf. "I _beg_ your pardon."

Crowley waggles a finger toward it. "Nyeehh the uh, the blade’s wrong. You want a serrated edge with bread, otherwise it mucks up the texture."

Aziraphale feels his cheeks heat again — he _really_ wishes they would stop doing that — and he can’t help feeling a tad embarrassed. Something about Crowley abashes him almost intrinsically. 

He could very much do without that.

“I don’t believe you’re the person preparing my lunch,” he fires back, “so while I appreciate the advice you’re welcome to take it and—" [1]

"Could be."

"I… what?"

"Could be the person making your lunch."

Aziraphale frowns. He runs through the statement again. Is that an offer? It must be. But why on Earth…? 

"Why?"

"Didn’t you say the guests cook sometimes?"

"Well. Yes, but—"

"Let me at it then." 

Crowley circles around to the island and slides himself into the space Aziraphale had occupied, brushing a finger against his knife-wielding hand. It’s not a demand but an invitation, an offering, and despite himself Aziraphale yields to it. 

Crowley puts down the inadequate knife and searches a few drawers before producing a new one with a long, serrated blade. With it he easily corrects course from Aziraphale’s crooked angle, then cuts a second slice of identical width.

His lips pinch to one side. "Do you have a panini press?"

“Hm? Ah— yes, I believe so."

"That sound good?"

“Sure, that would be lovely."

Crowley stares at him.

“Oh! Yes, of course, right." Aziraphale ducks down to a cabinet just in front of Crowley, carefully avoiding contact with his legs and not quite knowing why. Nonetheless Crowley takes the hint, stepping to the side so he can reach in and retrieve the panini press.

Aziraphale plugs it into the outlet on the island’s side and places it on the surface. 

"There you are.” 

“Thanks, angel.” 

There he goes again with that _name_. Aziraphale doesn’t know what to make of it now any more than he did last night, nor how to feel about it. It isn’t bad, per se, but it’s uncomfortable in a way he can’t quite place. It sits wrong in his stomach. 

Yet he wouldn’t dream of asking Crowley to stop.

Crowley opens the fridge and pulls out an assortment of ingredients, then repeats the action with the cabinets. He moves like he’s owned this kitchen his entire life. Aziraphale watches his elegant hands at work shaving paper-thin slices of tomato, sprinkling rosemary on bread, washing sprigs of basil Aziraphale collected from the garden just yesterday.

Eventually he tucks the sandwich into the press and sets a timer on his phone. As if rehearsed, he finishes cleaning the workspace with one second to spare and stops the clock before it can sound. 

He plates the sandwich. 

"So, where are you eating?" 

"In the garden, I suppose," answers Aziraphale, taking the plate and not whatever hint he’s surely meant to.

Crowley turns toward the fridge and begins inspecting its contents again. "Right, go on then. Enjoy." 

Aziraphale nods, dazed, and strolls outside.

He takes one of two seats at the table in the orchard. The white wrought iron set has been here for decades, slowly encroached upon by the dappled shade of growing trees. He’s just set the plate down when he spots Crowley sauntering over, a glass of lemonade in each hand.

_Why did he bring me two?_ Aziraphale wonders. Not that he won’t drink them both.

Crowley places them on the table and sits down. 

Ah.

“Are you going to eat anything?" Aziraphale asks, suddenly cognizant of his lunch being a two-person affair.

"Nah, just thought I’d sit."

“Alright. Well, I appreciate the company." 

He hopes it sounds genuine. In truth Aziraphale has been looking forward to a solitary meal after the morning’s tension, but he supposes this is tolerable. Crowley did, after all, prepare his food. 

He takes a bite of the sandwich and— oh. 

Oh _my._

“Goodness me, Crowley, this is _superb_.”

He gives a noncommittal grunt. “S’just a sandwich.”

“It’s absolutely scrumptious.” Aziraphale lights up at an extraordinary possibility. “Are you a professional chef?”

Crowley laughs, a warm chuckle Aziraphale feels in his chest. “Not even close. I’m out of work anyway.”

“I see. And what, um… what work are you out of?” 

Crowley stills. “It's warm out here.” 

He picks up his glass and disappears into the kitchen.

“Oh, bother,” Aziraphale mutters to himself.

It’s several minutes before Crowley returns again, this time with an icier drink and demeanor. He slithers into his chair as if daring it not to cooperate with the depth of his slouch. Surely the man’s rear is just hovering over the ground by now.

Aziraphale doesn’t dare check.

"I restore old books," he says instead. "I tend to keep most of them nowadays, so it’s more of a hobby. But I ran a shop back in London."

"Yeah?” Crowley tilts his head. “I live in Mayfair, might've seen it."

“Oh, I… very much doubt that. It's been quite some time."

"I’ve lived there quite some time.”

Aziraphale makes a mental note. Circuitousness. No direct questions. That’s what it takes.

“It was called A.Z. Fell & Company. I specialized in rare book dealing. But it was on a street corner in Soho, which is a very desirable location…” He trails off. “So. You know how these things are.” 

“You sold it.”

“In a manner of speaking.” Aziraphale takes an especially large bite of sandwich and _moans_. “Crowley, really, this is marvelous. I can’t cook half as well.”

“Sure you can, just need circumstances that push you to learn. What do you mean ‘in a manner of speaking?’”

Aziraphale swallows. “Ehm. There was a fire of, of, shall we say mysterious origin. I’d been painstakingly careful, but— well, one day I went out for groceries and came back to find the majority my collection destroyed, either from the fire itself or the subsequent water damage. I was gone within the week.”

He looks up from the sandwich to find Crowley’s mouth agape. The man looks horrified.

“It’s really alright,” Aziraphale adds quickly. “None of it reached my flat upstairs, so the gems of the collection got out relatively unscathed. And, of course, so did I. Anyway that’s how I ended up moving here, and I adore Cape Cod, wouldn’t dream of living elsewhere, so in a way it was a good thing. In a way.” 

He stuffs his mouth with food before anything else can tumble out.

“Gosh, I’m sorry.” Crowley speaks in a low timbre that sends tingles up Aziraphale’s spine. “I, um. My car. I mean it’s not the same thing, I’m sure, but. Y’know.”

Aziraphale furrows his brow. “Your car?”

“Oh,” he shakes his head, “sorry. Yeah. I had a Bentley, an antique one— it was the only thing I gave a damn about, really. ‘Sides my plants. And I— it also. Had a mysterious fire. Not, not too long ago, actually.” He swallows some lemonade and thumps the glass back down. Clears his throat. “Anyway,” he says, louder, “now I’m here too. So. Cheers.” 

“Cheers.” Aziraphale smiles wanly. He folds his hands up to his chest. How very like him to say the worst possible thing, to dredge up a pain so recent it’s barely scabbed over.

_Change the subject,_ he commands himself. “How are you finding your room?”

“It’s quite nice. Spacious. Lovely view.”

“Oh, isn’t it? I'll never tire of that shoreline. Our balcony is such a treat this time of year.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows. “Our?”

“Of course! I’m hardly going to proclaim it mine when it opens to your room just as easily.”

“Didn’t realize it connected to yours. S’pose I should’ve figured that out, what with the shared wall.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale flushes a bit. That makes _three_ , he notes ruefully. “Yes, it connects to both. Our timing likely won’t overlap much since I’m up at odd hours, but I lounge there now and then.”

“Pity.”

_Oh._

Aziraphale bites the inside of his cheek, demanding his expression remain neutral. _Pity._ He doesn’t blame Crowley for thinking it — he knows he’s not exciting company, and Crowley has more panache in his left pinky than Aziraphale has seen in his entire life. But to say it out loud… 

“I’ll be sure to stay out of your way,” he responds, voice wavering only slightly. 

He picks up his dishes and retreats inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1. And use it to prepare a nice meal for himself, thank you very much.↩


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY CHAPTER THREE. i appreciate your patience so endlessly. it has been A Time irl on many levels and i have spent a good chunk of it writing versions of this chapter that didn’t quite work, y’know as a treat, but we have LANDED. i’m overjoyed to finally share this with you!! 
> 
> i want to be clear that i am still very much invested in this story and working on it all the time. it’s just that much of the work contributes to future chapters and arcs, so i have 23k of outline and like 9k of published story right now. it makes for slow updates but it also ensures i will won’t write myself into a corner, and — as this is my first proper multichap — i am prioritizing that hardcore.
> 
> thank you as always to [Anti_Kate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anti_kate), a fantastic beta and a fantastic person whom i can never thank enough. seriously i don’t know how they do it.

“Going to read?” says Crowley, expression inscrutable. 

He’s waiting on the deck this morning after all, barefoot and in his swimsuit, posture relaxed as ever. And whatever Aziraphale feels now is not relief, _cannot_ be relief, because that would imply he’d have otherwise been disappointed. 

“Yes. Going to swim?”

“I was thinking about it.”

They stare at each other, then speak simultaneously.

“You don’t have to—” 

“You’re under no obligation—” 

“...You go first,” says Crowley. 

Aziraphale steels himself. He has, as a matter of courtesy, spent quite some time considering this statement — tinkering with the phrasing and running through responses. If he must lay awake for hours each night, he may as well get something out of it.

“I was going to say,” he begins, conviction deflating alarmingly with each syllable, “that I — that I apologize for intruding upon your visit. I’m available if you need assistance with small matters, and you’re more than welcome to accompany me in the mornings. If you’d like. But you mustn’t feel obligated. It makes no difference to me either way, truly.”

Crowley frowns behind his sunglasses. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I thought— never mind.” He lifts himself from the chair and begins walking. “Sounds reasonable. Let’s go.”

“One moment, what were you going to say?”

“Doesn’t matter. Beach.”

Aziraphale tuts and rolls his eyes, but follows him anyway. They walk as a pair. 

* * *

The following morning does not proceed so well. That is, if Friday morning had proceeded well at all. Aziraphale _thought_ it had, at the time — but if he were a less reasonable person, he would be questioning that now.

Fortunately, he is a reasonable person. So rather than concentrate on something he’s barely noticed, like Crowley’s presence or lack thereof, he welcomes a morning on the beach with his book and his solitude. Perhaps now he’ll finally make some progress in his reading. 

If Crowley _were_ here Aziraphale would doubtless spend the time fussing over nothing — how often he’d look over, and when, and what he might be thinking. The cause of a particular gap in conversation and how it might be avoided in the future. Or whether a degree of silence ought to be allowed now and then, lest Aziraphale come across as nervous. He is nervous, but not _really;_ it’s not as if any of this matters.

Crowley could simply have lost interest in their acquaintanceship. It’s a reasonable enough explanation. Aziraphale has plenty of interests, but few if any that are relevant to a person like him. A person with… with charm and style and culinary abilities. What could Aziraphale possibly offer someone like that?

It’s possible, of course, that the morning swims themselves were the issue. Too cold, too early, too exhausting. If that’s the case, he might never have an opportunity to speak with Crowley again. Some guests prefer it that way; they travel across the world to stay holed up in a room with no cellular service and an ocean view, and it’s everything they could want. Mundanity without familiarity. Crowley might be the type.

And Aziraphale has no reason to seek him out. They will live parallel lives in parallel rooms, never meeting, never growing any closer. No more walks on the beach. No shared meals or conversations. No showing Crowley around town or around his library, as he only now realizes he’s been planning on.

Aziraphale might never see the color of his eyes.

No matter. It’s Crowley’s choice. Even if he joins Aziraphale tomorrow, he’ll have made it clear that he could take or leave the companionship. To think, Aziraphale had almost begun to expect something of him. 

It’s a good thing Crowley isn’t here, so he doesn’t have to think about any of that.

* * *

Aziraphale doesn’t see Crowley all day.

Not that he’s keeping track. He’s been quite busy, actually, and not at all distracted, hence the smattering of untouched supplies on his library desk and snack wrappers collecting around the wastebasket like fruit flies.

He’s just about to begin working — really this time — when he hears a knock

“What is it?” he calls out.

“Someone knocking.”

Aziraphale lunges from his chair to open the door. “How may I help you?”

“What is this, a Tesco? Christ.” Crowley leans against the doorframe. “I was wondering where the bin is in the kitchen.”

“Oh, it’s— if you look toward the stove, and then down, it’s the lower cabinet third from the right corner. To the left of the sink.”

Crowley stares at him blankly.

“I’ll just show you.”

Aziraphale steps into the hall, closing the door behind him, and leads Crowley to the kitchen. He pulls out the bin as specified. “Anything else?”

“Nope, all good here.”

“Alright.” Aziraphale should leave — he should — but instead he wrings his hands and thinks of how uncomfortable it is that he’s still here.

“So... what’s up?”

_No turning back now._

“Actually, I was thinking — if you were ever of the mind to share — I would very much appreciate some instruction on, ah, that sandwich you prepared the other day. I’d hate to bother you every time, but I’d also hate to never have it again.”

“It’s… no bother. But uh, yeah, sure, I can show you. Go ahead and grab the sandwich press.” Crowley heads toward the refrigerator.

"Now?"

He turns around. "Did you not mean now?"

Aziraphale hadn’t, but— well, he is rather hungry. “Now would be delightful.”

“Okay.” Crowley returns to the fridge, then to various cabinets, fetching ingredients with a practiced ease. Within a minute he’s stood before an array of supplies and holding a knife to a loaf of bread.

“First off,” he says, “serrated blade, like I mentioned before. See how long this thing is? That’s for sawing back and forth.”

Aziraphale nods.

“So…” He makes two notches in the bread, then hands the knife to Aziraphale. “There you go, try slicing the rest.”

Aziraphale does his best, though he’s acutely aware of Crowley’s eyes on him, and the dawning realization that this may be a terribly embarrassing idea. He ought to think it through more carefully next time. 

Well, never mind. It won’t do to begin regretting it now.

The slices turn out well — probably the best they ever have, in fact — and he looks toward Crowley feeling rather pleased.

He tilts his head. “You’ll get there eventually.”

Aziraphale scoffs. 

“What! I’m being encouraging.”

Aziraphale fixes him with the most unamused glare he can manage, which is not very. 

Crowley grins. “Look.” His hand slides over Aziraphale’s as he takes the breadknife, placing it back on the cutting board. “We can move onto the tomato now, which is arguably easier. So you certainly won’t be needing this again.” 

Crowley goes on to explain the benefits of using a serrated knife compared to a plain edge, the role of pressure, the superiority of particular tomato varieties in different contexts. The longer he speaks, the more he gestures, the more animated his voice becomes. It’s remarkably earnest for how aloof he often seems.

And Aziraphale will not remember any of it, he’s sure. Despite what Crowley’s advice may suggest, he has no plans to begin a tomato-specific garden to support an entirely tomato-based diet. But he listens as if each detail is immensely relevant and interesting — perhaps because Crowley himself is.

“Uh. Anyway,” says Crowley, likely realizing how far he’s strayed from the original topic, “give it a try.”

Aziraphale lifts the relevant knife. Crowley is silent now, watching him with an intensity made all the more nerve-wracking by his indiscernible eyes. Yet the experience is not… unpleasant. Aziraphale can’t say _what_ it is. Some element of Crowley's attention, his proximity, his care, fills Aziraphale with an anxiety that borders on thrill. He feels like a creature beneath a microscope — lit to the point of transparency between crushing panels of glass.

It’s wildly uncomfortable. Aziraphale can’t get enough of it. He slices the tomato and tries to breathe, succeeding only at the first. 

“There you go,” says Crowley, encouraging and sincere. “You’re a natural.”

 _“That_ , my dear, is a blatant lie. I leave a trail of mutilated bread loaves in my wake wherever I go.”

“I see. The Midas Touch for turning bread into slightly shittier bread.”

“Precisely.” Aziraphale grins.

The mozzarella, when they get to it, seems determined to prove Aziraphale’s point. Crowley assures him it’s all going to melt anyway. 

In the following ten minutes they drizzle olive oil and balsamic glaze, layer on pesto and basil leaves, and top it off with a sprinkle of salt.

“At this point,” says Crowley, spreading his hands, “you have a good caprese sandwich. Most people would stop here. But do you know what would elevate this to a _great_ caprese sandwich?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

“Since you asked nicely, angel.” He turns toward the spice rack with a wink, shadowed by his glasses but unmistakable.

Something inexplicable overcomes Aziraphale's body — he can feel his heart fail and his lungs give out and his brain short-circuit all at once and he can’t even _begin_ to process it all, can hardly regain his composure before Crowley has turned back around with a pepper pot and begun grinding it atop the open sandwich, entirely unaware of Aziraphale’s internal crisis.

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale says, vaguely aware that Crowley has just spoken.

“I said I’m gonna put the sandwich in the press, and then we can tidy up.”

“Right, of course. Clean-up. Indeed.” Aziraphale looks around aimlessly. “I'll just, uh— get started."

“Sure.”

Aziraphale’s limbs move of their own accord, putting away leftover ingredients and collecting organic waste for the compost pile. He scarcely manages to compose himself in that time, and with Crowley loading the dishwasher, their work is done quite quickly.

Unfortunately the two of them are still subject to the whims of panini press. 

Their occupied silence lapses into a profoundly awkward one as they stand on either side of the machine, both staring hard at the indicator light lest one of them blink when it goes off. Aziraphale cycles through a litany of increasingly desperate conversation topics before settling on something simple.

“Thank you,” he says, “for, um, showing me how to make this.”

Crowley looks up. “Hm? Oh.” He waves a hand. “Any time.”

“Please, I’m sure you have better things to do than spend a half hour teaching some fool how to use a kitchen knife,” Aziraphale chuckles.

“No, I mean it. Any time.”

They stare at each other.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says softly. 

“I mean, it’s entertaining at the very least,” says Crowley, looking away. “I’ve never seen someone so offended by the disobedience of a mozzarella cheese ball.”

“Oh, pish.” Aziraphale can barely suppress his smile. “The cheese should have known better.”

Crowley leans against the worktop. "See, that's what I tell my plants. They— _fuck!”_ He yanks his hand back with a hiss, shaking it in the air.

"Are you hurt?"

"No," he says through clenched teeth. "Just a burn, no harm done."

Aziraphale wonders what Crowley thinks that phrase means. "Nonsense, let me fetch a first aid kit. Back in a moment."

"Okay, yeah, I'll grab some ice—”

Aziraphale whips back around. “Don’t.” He turns on the faucet, letting it run until it flows cool against his fingers. "There. Water can ease the pain without causing further damage. I'll be right back."

Aziraphale steps into the bathroom by the kitchen and ducks under the sink, retrieving a few supplies from the first aid kit within. He hesitates for a moment, then grabs the fluffiest hand towel in the room.

When he steps back out Crowley is examining his hand, sunglasses pushed up to his hairline. Aziraphale’s heart flips in his chest. There is nothing clandestine about a pair of eyes — Aziraphale knows that — but he can't shake the feeling that he's walked in on Crowley in a profoundly vulnerable state akin to nudity. And judging by his nonresponse, he seems not to have noticed.

Aziraphale slips back into the bathroom as quietly as possible and leaves again, making a point to knock a foot against the door and clear his throat on his way out. He fixes his gaze on the items in his hands as he approaches the sink, looking up at last to find his own reflection staring back at him. He swallows his disappointment. 

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Aziraphale sets the items down and looks to Crowley’s hand. “May I?”

Crowley withdraws his hand from under the faucet. He lets the remaining water drip into the sink before extending it to Aziraphale, who gently dabs it dry with the bathroom towel. It rests there like a sparkling ring upon a cushion, something too elegant to be touched directly.

And it is elegant, truly — the kind of hand that seems made for turning pristine pages, for spinning globes to decide where he wanders next. Veins adorn its back like tributaries. A gradation of ginger hair sweeps across his wrist like confident brushstrokes on a page, like ripples of sand on a seabed. 

Aziraphale blinks. He’s been staring too long. “Ah, how does it feel?”

“What?” 

“The burn. Does it hurt much?” He realizes he still has Crowley’s hand in his and quickly lets it go, placing the towel aside.

Crowley’s shrug is so decidedly casual it looks rehearsed. “S’fine, really. I’ve had worse.”

“Of course you have, silly. You’ve been putting ice on them this whole time.”

“Oi! It’s not exactly common knowledge—”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “The appropriate treatment of minor burns isn’t common knowledge?”

“Less common than how to slice bread, apparently.”

Aziraphale clicks his mouth shut. He would like to be insulted, but Crowley’s smug expression is somehow more endearing than obnoxious. Rather unsporting of him. 

Instead Aziraphale busies himself applying ointment and gauze, lowering his eyes to stop them giving him away. A thought repeatedly buoys to the surface as he works, an insistence that the situation is perfectly appropriate despite him knowing as much already. It pokes at him over and over, campaigning hard against a refutation he hasn’t made. Of course they’re not doing anything they shouldn’t be.

Still, it comes as something of a relief when he finishes.

“There you are, my dear. Good as new.”

Crowley frowns slightly. “Do you…?” 

Panic floods Aziraphale’s mind over what he might say, what he could be asking, but before he can process any of it Crowley curses and lunges toward the sandwich press. He opens it to reveal what looks less like a caprese panini and more like a charcoal briquette.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, deflating. 

“Oh,” Crowley responds.

“I suppose I could… scrape off the burnt areas.”

“Aziraphale, the whole thing is a burnt area.”

His face crumples. “I suppose you’re right.”

“We could… try making another?” 

Aziraphale denies him instinctively, saying he’s already taken up too much of Crowley’s time. It’s only after the words leave his mouth that he realizes he’s rejected a perfect opportunity to take up a little more. Bugger.

Crowley concedes with a tilt of the head. “Shame. It is what it is, though. Can I help clean up?”

“That’s terribly kind of you, but I must insist I take care of it. You’re the guest.”

“Okay. I’ll whip something up later, maybe.” He heads toward the door, then turns on his heel. “ _Although._ You know local restaurants, right? Maybe you could… point me… somewhere.”

Aziraphale lights up. “That I could. Let me just, um, take care of all this, and I’ll get back to you on it.”

“Great.” He flashes a lopsided smile. “I’ll be in the sitting room. _Ciao._ ”

And he’s gone.

Aziraphale makes it about halfway through the panini press recovery process before realizing that “point me somewhere” is, in fact, an incredibly vague instruction. It would be rather impertinent to assume he meant for Aziraphale to accompany him to lunch, wouldn’t it? Crowley has already sacrificed most of his afternoon to his hopeless culinary skills. He probably just wants recommendations for somewhere he can finally eat in peaceful solitude.

Though if he _had_ been asking for company, it would behoove Aziraphale to accept. They have to live in proximity for two months, after all. Turning down the offer would make things rather awkward. Really he doesn’t have a choice in the matter; he just needs to understand the question.

He runs through several potential scenarios in his head as he finishes up, trying to establish the best approach. Eventually he settles on one, just vague enough to prevent him tipping his hand regarding expectations before Crowley does the same. 

He tucks the press back where it belongs and retrieves some menu pamphlets from a nearby drawer. Unsure of what Crowley likes, he grabs a few of everything, then heads to the sitting room.

He finds him there as promised, lounging sideways across the same armchair he had on his first day here. 

He straightens slightly when he sees Aziraphale. “Hey.”

“Hello.” Aziraphale spreads the menus on a nearby table. “Here’s a selection of local restaurants. If you’re in the mood for something particular I can see what more we have lying around.”

Crowley stares at the table, expression blank. “Which one’s your favorite?” he eventually asks.

"Well, it depends. The Four Horsemen is very good, though I haven’t visited enough to have a thorough assessment. I’m not banned per _se_ , but Newt and Anathema are — that’s a whole other story — so I’m afraid they’re not very fond of me either. There’s also Ritz, like _The_ Ritz, but it’s sort of a joke you see because it’s actually a greasy spoon diner sort of place, not nearly so high-brow as its namesake, although it is very good, particularly for brunch, and they have an angel cake that is just—" Aziraphale looks to the sky and shakes his head. "Honestly, I think about it several times a week. But I do _try_ to save it for special occasions. Then there’s Petronius’s Place — they serve seafood, which is particularly delicious around here for obvious reasons, but they’re the best of the best. Oh! Also The Chattering Order, which— well, you probably wouldn’t like that one."

Crowley nods slowly. “Okay. Let me rephrase. Aziraphale, please choose a place for us because I have no idea what to do with all this information.”

_Us._

_Us, us, us._

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Quite right. Well. I’d recommend Petronius’s Place, if you eat seafood. He does _remarkable_ things to oysters.”

“Hm. I’ve never eaten an oyster.” 

Aziraphale’s jaw drops. “ _Well._ Let me tempt you.”

“Like you need to try.” Crowley stands and gestures toward the door. “Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gosh y’know when you need to find out where the trash can is this very second even though you have nothing to throw away….. hate when that happens.
> 
> [this](https://www.simplyscratch.com/2013/06/pressed-caprese-sandwich.html) is the recipe for the sandwich they prepared (minus the pesto) which i have extolled greatly in this chapter but never actually tried. it has rave reviews though!
> 
> anyway — the main thing i want to say here is thank you so much for your comments. they are unbelievably generous; i read them all many times over and i treasure every single one. i’m usually slow as hell to reply because i am always sleep deprived and i want to respond when my brain is present enough to get the gratitude across properly. i never feel like i’ve expressed it well enough even at the best of times. but please know i do intend to reply to every one, even if it’s months late, and in the meantime i am reading them to myself and _beaming._
> 
> if you haven’t commented, hello! i am so happy you’re here and i hope you’re enjoying the story. thank you very much for your time and attention ♥

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr as [mochacoffee!](http://mochacoffee.tumblr.com) come say hi any time :)


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